


At Human Hands

by cerebel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Fisting, Fisting instead of knotting, Indeterminate designation Trevelyan, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Nonverbal Consent, Omega Solas (Dragon Age), Onscreen confirmation of offscreen consent, Slight humiliation kink, Some talk of impregnation kink, Subdrop, Verbal Consent, someone else's Trevelyan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: Trevelyan doesn't have a knot, but she'll take care of Solas in his heat the best that she can.
Relationships: Solas/Female Trevelyan
Kudos: 41





	At Human Hands

Solas is drenched and trembling by the time she shifts up, slithering an arm under his waist to pull him back against her. The elf is feverish and pliant; when she urges his leg back over her knee, to give her more room to work, he melts against her. She can still taste him on her lips as she skims her fingertips where he is so wet. 

“Are you still sure?” She asks him, unnecessarily. Of course he is. Every line of his body has suddenly gone pleading-taut, and he is breathless again. 

She wonders if he is humiliated to be so helpless at the hands of a human. 

Then she wonders if he likes that. 

“I need you,” his low, musical voice begs. 

So she starts to enter him. 

Loosening him with tongue and fingers was hardly necessary, though deeply enjoyable for them both. Now, she can angle four fingers in, tucking her thumb, into the incredibly hot, incredibly slippery internal vaginal entrance, swollen wide with heat. 

“I can feel how much you need this,” she murmurs into his pointed ear, nibbling the angled edge. “Your cunt’s opening right up to me, you’re like velvet inside, Solas, like you were made for fucking,” and she can see his ear twitch and the angle of his head shift as he buries his face in towards the pillow. But he’s not turning away from her, not exactly, because he’s actually angled a hint so that he could hear better. She fancies that the flush spread from jaw to cheekbone to the tip of his ear is a little from pleasant, warm humiliation, the kind that she is happy to deliver.

She is ever so careful as she presses the thickest part of her hand inside, even though he’s so welcoming, not vise-tight, like he really is made for it, and Solas makes a broken noise that she’s never heard from him before as the lump of her palm slips inside him and he tightens around her wrist. 

“Look how easy,” she tells him, “look how much you want it. There’s come all down your thighs, already, you’re such a slut for this, aren’t you?” 

“Jess.” She almost couldn’t tell that was what he said, so obscured it is by the harsh way he’s breathing, like he’ll never get enough air. 

“Mm? You want more?” She twists her fingers in him — so deep, so deep! And she does fuck him, in little shallow strokes, not pulling out more than an inch before she presses deeper. 

He makes a high sound she’s never heard before, half-pleasure, half-overstimulation, as she reaches — oh, that’s — that’s the end of him, the entrance to his womb. And suddenly it’s she who’s hot all over. She strokes the tip of her middle finger against it, and he goes all tight around her, delicious. 

“Don’t you wish you could carry a child of mine?” She bites his ear this time, and he twitches, full-body, and she worries that she’s gone too far but the leg slung back over hers curls and his hips angle into her hand, bodily begging for more. 

“Don’t you wish I could spend inside you? Not that you’d notice, you’re such a mess, your pussy’s dripping for it, but then it’d be my seed inside you…” 

“Please,” he is breathing, in broken tones, “please, oh please,” with shivering-tight muscles every time she curls her fingers. 

“You’re ready, Solas?” 

She knows he is, so she starts curling her fingers tight. He goes still and loose again, another way of begging, because when he goes still like this it’s because he’s worried anything he does will make her stop. It’s almost more of a thrill that she knows this, that she can tell, than it is to have her fist buried in her elven lover’s welcoming body. 

Almost.

And then her hand is a fist, and she twists it so it’s pressing forward, and Solas just fucking comes. 

He claws at the sheets until she catches his hands in her free hand, and then he clutches at her, desperate sobs breaking from him, full-body, as he comes and comes and comes. His cock spends into the sheets untouched, and if she pushes, just there, she can feel its rhythmic twitch from the inside. Cascading flutters of internal muscle as his body grips her tight in place, his hips twitching and grinding. 

To think she’d been worried this wouldn’t work, that she wouldn’t be able to get him quite into the heights of omega-pleasure that an alpha with a cock and a knot could. But he’s there, he’s all the way there, her normally composed and quiet elf scholar turned feral and undone. 

He doesn’t stop coming, but the climaxes, all on one another’s heels, seem to mellow out. He is weeping now, silently, overwhelmed, and she releases his hands so she can stroke his belly, murmur soothing things into his ear. “You’re perfect, Solas, you’re so beautiful, my beautiful perfect elf,” as he gasps and flutters around her hand, and as his cock twitches and comes dry, barely even drooling with spend. 

If she did make seed, it would be taking root in him right now. He is so receptive. He is so very much hers. But she doesn’t need to make him heavy with child to know that. 

It’s hard to say when it’s over, but eventually he’s just sweat-soaked and liquid in her arms, and when she so so carefully uncurls her fingers and begins to withdraw from him it prompts very little protest, just a little rolling tension, a wince as the heel of her hand pulls out of him. 

Suddenly she’s grateful for her foresight in putting the basin of water next to the bed, because she doesn’t have to let go of him to reach for it and soak one of the cloths, wiping off her hand and then folding it to a fresh side to start gently-so-gently cleaning his spend, both feminine and masculine, from his thighs and his belly. 

But he doesn’t seem adrift and happy like he should be as she does this. He has started shivering, and as soon as she’s done she turns him around, pulling him into her arms and tugging the heavy, warm blanket up over them both. He buries his face in her throat and says nothing, just curls close. 

So she doesn’t say anything either. Just strokes his skin: his shoulder, his long ears, his smooth scalp, the divot between his shoulderblades. Not as the shivering eases, not as his breathing steadies, not as he falls asleep. 

Eventually, she realizes she never came. That the perfect warm satisfaction she feels is just from him. 

She smiles, and she drifts to sleep too.


End file.
